From the Hedgewitch's Journal: September: The Time of Plenty

 

                               From the Hedgewitch's Journal

September: The Hedgewitch and the Time of Plenty

"September is the hinge upon which the year turns, when summer gives her last gifts and autumn begins to gather the world into her keeping."

There is a different feeling in the hedgerows in September. The bright abundance of midsummer has begun to fade, but the countryside is not yet empty; everywhere there are gifts waiting to be gathered. The old country people knew this as a time of plenty, when hedgerows, woods, orchards, and fields offered food for the coming months, and a wise household wasted little of what the land provided.

For the hedgewitch, September was a season of both gathering and preparation. The herbs that had been flowering through summer were harvested and hung in bundles to dry, while roots were beginning to be dug and stored for winter remedies. But her basket was not filled with herbs alone, for the wild places could provide food as well as medicine.

The hedgerows were heavy with blackberries, rosehips, elderberries, sloes, and hawthorn berries. Apples and crab apples ripened in orchards and along old country lanes, while hazelnuts could be gathered from beneath the trees. What could not be eaten fresh might be dried, preserved in honey, made into cordials, or stored for the cold days when the hedges would offer little.

This was the wisdom of the old seasons: gather when there is plenty, for winter will ask its due.

In earlier centuries, the approach of autumn was not simply a change in weather. It was a matter of survival. Before modern shops and refrigeration, the harvest determined how comfortably a household might endure the winter, and the gathering of wild foods could supplement what grew in the fields and kitchen garden. A woman walking the hedgerow with a basket on her arm was not merely wandering; she was laying aside provisions for the dark half of the year.

Even the herbs seemed to understand the change. Leaves that had spent the summer reaching toward the sun were beginning to yellow, flowers were setting seed, and plants that stored their strength underground were preparing for dormancy. September was therefore a useful time to turn the healer's attention toward roots such as burdock, elecampane, and valerian, gathered according to the traditions and knowledge of the time.

There was also something deeply practical in gathering medicine alongside food. A household might preserve berries for winter drink while drying herbs for teas and remedies, keeping honey and beeswax close at hand for salves and preparations. The boundary between kitchen, garden, and apothecary was wonderfully blurred; the same woman might know how to make a blackberry preserve, dry a medicinal root, and prepare a soothing herbal infusion.

The September landscape also carried its own folklore. Rowan berries brightened the branches, elder berries darkened the hedges, and the first leaves began to fall beneath the trees. These plants were valued not only for their practical uses but for the stories attached to them, because the old countryside was filled with trees and herbs that belonged simultaneously to medicine, memory, superstition, and magic.

Perhaps this is why I love imagining the hedgewitch in September. She would know that the year was changing, even before the first frost arrived, and she would feel the quiet urgency of the season in her bones. Her basket would grow heavier with each walk, while above her head the swallows gathered and the evenings drew steadily inward.

The old people understood that autumn was not an ending so much as a reckoning. The time of plenty was passing, and everything that could be gathered, dried, preserved, or stored would soon become precious. Summer had given generously, but winter would demand patience, thrift, and preparation.

There is a lesson in that which feels almost forgotten now.

We live in a world where almost anything can be bought at any time of year. Yet there is something deeply satisfying about remembering the older rhythm—to gather what is abundant, preserve what will sustain us, and recognize that every season has its own gifts.

That is the rhythm I return to whenever I write about the women of The Midsummer Women. Their knowledge is not only about spells or mysterious herbs; it is about paying attention. Knowing when the berries ripen, when the roots are ready, when the leaves should be gathered, and when the earth is telling you that it is time to stop harvesting and begin preparing for winter.

Perhaps the true magic of the hedgewitch was never found in some grand enchantment.

Perhaps it was knowing the land well enough to understand what it was saying.

So walk the hedgerow in September, if you can. Notice the dark berries, the fallen leaves, the scent of damp earth, and the first chill beneath the afternoon sun, but forage responsibly and be certain of a plant's identity before eating anything wild.

The hedge is entering its quiet season.

And the old apothecary is beginning to close its doors.

Until Next Time

"Gather while the hedgerow gives, preserve while the hearth is warm, and remember that winter begins long before the first snow."

September is the month of full baskets and lengthening shadows, when summer's abundance becomes autumn's provision. The hedgewitch knows that nothing truly disappears; the flowers become seeds, the berries become stores, and the living green retreats beneath the earth to wait for another spring.